


No Land in Sight

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: sentinel_thurs, Flashbacks, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sentinel Thursday, takes place between SenToo and Murder 101
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 21:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: A trip to Hargrove Hall a few weeks after the fountain.





	No Land in Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 630: "drown"
> 
> Takes place after SenToo but before Murder 101.

It's not rational. You know that. 

It's been weeks. He's fine. You're fine. It isn't even the first time you've been back here since it happened. 

But this time. This time you pull up into the parking lot --

\-- _then you're sprinting up the steps_ \--

\-- then you're still in the truck, reaching to turn off the ignition.

A glitch of memory. That's all. Explainable. Understandable. 

You turn off the ignition. You grip the steering wheel with both hands, deliberately. Just a glitch, a glitch of memory. It's fine. Everything's fine. You're in the cab of your truck. You are _not_ sprinting up the steps --

\-- _you're stopping at the top of the steps, turning, seeing, running,_ knowing --

\-- and then you hear his voice. You're still in the truck. You lift your eyes from the steering wheel, from your hands gripping it like it's a life preserver -- deep ocean, no land in sight, no _rescue_ in sight -- and you see him. 

He's talking to someone. A student, probably. Her back's to you, but her hair is blonde. Of course it isn't _her_ \-- isn't her, couldn't be her -- but he's standing with her, standing less than a yard away from the goddamned fountain, and he's _laughing._

He's standing almost where you and Brown laid him down on the grass, and he's laughing. 

Where you and Simon and the EMTs worked on him, and everybody kept telling you to let it go. Let him go. 

And he's laughing. 

You're tired. So goddamned tired. You see him notice you; he gives you a little wave and wraps up his conversation, starts heading towards the truck, smiling.

It's not rational, any of it. Being angry at him for dying. For living. 

For _living --_ no. You don't mean that. 

Maybe you're angry with him for being able to live almost as if he never died in the first place, as if he isn't haunted by fountains, by drowning, by fucking _sentinels._

Maybe you're angry with him for not having to go through what you went through that morning _(this can't be happening oh god no)_ \-- maybe you're angry about that. About being all alone with that.

It doesn't matter. He's going to leave anyway, sooner or later. It's not going to be on your terms the next time, either; any more than it was this time. 

Maybe he won't come back, next time.

He's jogging towards the truck. You can see the fountain behind him –-

\-- _face down in the water, he's_ –-

\-- and he's opening the passenger door and climbing into the cab, smiling, saying, "Hey, thanks for the –-"

"You're late," you say abruptly. Your voice hurts your throat. It sounds angry. Like you feel.

His smile vanishes. "You okay?" he asks.

You look away from the fountain. Look down at your hands and loosen your grip on the steering wheel. You're better than this. Stronger than this. He's fine, you're fine, everything's fine. You shrug. "I'm fine, Chief," you say, and you must sound less angry, since he relaxes and starts fumbling with his seat belt. 

You're fine. 

Maybe tomorrow you won't feel like you're drowning all the time.


End file.
